wtffashionshark

Hallo Readers,

Were it not for the warm weather and the desire to discover whether Helen Titchener gets off stabbing her horrible husband in Radio 4’s The Archers (what do you mean, you don’t listen?), many Brits would presently be stringing themselves up from the light fittings. The pound has gone down the toilet. Her Majesty’s Government has no idea what to do about Brexit. Her Majesty’s Opposition has no idea, period, and whoever wins the Leadership election next month, the Party will join the pound and disappear so far around the bend that a task force of plumbers and rocket scientists will not be able to save either. Which is why the arrival of a sex scandal in the Sunday Mirror last Sunday cheered everyone up no end. What did it not have? There were Polish rent boys. There were drugs (though Vaz does not appear to have taken illegal drugs). And, best of all, there was a pompous prat of a politician with his trousers down around his ankles. Britain has always loved laughing at a man with his trousers round his ankles. After all, this is the Nation that gave the world Brian Rix and Benny Hill….

WTF has quite a lot of sympathy with Keith Vaz MP. On the one hand, if you want to call yourself Jim the washing machine salesman and drum up a couple of rent boys to give you the full service in the privacy of your third home, then why not? In this nasty xenophobic post-Brexit atmosphere, extending your hand, not to mention your nether regions, to migrants in friendship is a fitting gesture from the former Minister for Europe. And at least Vaz was paying for it, under no illusions that a portly middle aged man oozed sex appeal for his much younger partners. Who can forget the idiot Simon Danczuk MP sexting a 17-year-old constituent who turned out to be a dominatrix trading under the name Rosalie von Morelli? Or the Minister for Civil Society, Brooks Newmark MP, who sent a dick-pic of his member to what he thought was Tory Totty Sophie, someone whom he had never met, and who sadly turned out to be a male Sunday Mirror journalist on a sting. As WTF explained at the time, the matter is best summed up by the fine old Yiddish expression, “Ven der schmeckl steht, der sechel geht“, roughly translated as “when your prick goes hard, common sense flies out of the window”.

But the problem is that Vaz was the Chair of the Home Affairs Select Committee (or should that be the Third Home Extramarital Affairs Select Committee?). Over the years, Vaz has interrogated the Great and the Good and the Not-So-Good from the top of the High Moral Ground, loving every moment in the limelight. No soundbite went unsaid, no photo opportunity was passed over. Recently, the Committee has been investigating prostitution with Vaz at the helm. You simply cannot have a man in charge of an investigation into his hobby, not without some prior disclosure, and certainly not the sort of disclosure that the Sunday Mirror has on tape. It is pretty bloody sleazy to inflict your person on a couple of people for a few quid each. You cannot have someone lecturing his constituents on safe sex whilst boasting to Wladimir and Wojciech about his exploits sans condoms. We Brits don’t mind a bit of jiggy-jiggy  but we can’t be doing with hypocrisy. Especially in MPs.

So Vaz has gone back to the Back Benches. Even he could not brazen this one out. Luckily for him, Mrs Vaz is standing by him. But as someone who has been embroiled in more scandals that Jim’s washing machines have had cycles, and survived to tell to tell the tale, you just know that he will come again…..

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Be warned, Readers, a collective madness descended on celebrity fashionistas this week. WTF is battle-hardened but the expanse of thighs and naughty bits on display makes what follows a veritable fanny-fest. Those of a delicate disposition may want to scroll down extra slowly and have the number of a healthcare professional on speed-dial. Or skip straight to It’s Got To Go.

We start with singer Ellie Goulding at the premiere of the new Bridget Jones movie in London, wearing Marchesa.

Ellie looks like a fluffy duck with sideboob and her lips seem to have been attacked by a swarm of particularly bolshie bees. The back view is even worse.

Great legs, but has her skirt, not that it is a skirt, got caught in her knickers? Why is it so much shorter at the back than the front? From behind, she seems to be wearing nothing but a wrap-around apron.

To the GQ Men of the Year Awards and Olympic swimmer Tom Daley, wearing Top Man.

Do not adjust your eyeballs.  The pattern on Tom’s pyjama-suit is like the one you get when you have forgotten to attach the TV aerial to the set. And white plimsolls with a flash of ankle add only insult to injury.

Also present at the GQ Awards was singer Florence Welch, wearing Gucci.

From the neck up, she looks great. From the neck down, she looks like a gift-wrapped, fairground fortune-teller with silly sandals. Here is a WTF rule. Puce looks good on no-one, and especially not on redheads.

And here is a side view of Florence with Gucci’s Head Designer, the ridiculous Alessandro Michele, wearing, er, Gucci.

Flo’s sandals look worse from the side. Alessandro is wearing a suit made from the sort of wallpaper you get in guest cloakrooms, whilst his bow tie is as floppy as a pair of spaniel’s ears. And there is something very pageboy about the white socks and patent pumps combo.

Here is singer Rihanna out and about in Paris, wearing St Laurent.

£10,000. That’s what this red heart-shaped thing costs. £10,000. Rihanna is a major star so why she needs to perambulate around Paris dressed as a giant aorta is anyone’s guess.

This week’s Sheer Tedium features socialite Hofit Golan at the Venice Film Festival,  wearing Joao Rolo Couture.

Very improbable tits, lacy hip-bones and a skirt like a minge-flavoured ice cream cone. Just. Go. Away.

And now two quite appalling examples of gratuitously graphic vaginal visualisation, as we hit the Venetian Red Carpet with a pair of nonentities out to get their pictures in, well, this blog for a start. And every newspaper, magazine and website. First, Italian model  Guilia Salemi.

Yurgle. She looks like a half-peeled orange. Except that oranges do not have tan lines. Or minges. Or those particularly uncomfortable spoon-shaped minge-stoppers worn in lieu of panties.

And here’s another one, Giulia’s partner-in-crime Brazilian model Dayane Mello. Double yurgle.

More puce, less fabric, much pudendum. Careful with this next pic…

A gaggle of gynaecologists gets to see fewer girly-parts in a month’s hard graft. When did flashing become fashion?